


The Videodrome

by Baryshnikov



Series: Crossing the red-stained veil [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Dark, Dark Harry Potter, Gore, Implied Sexual Content, Intersection of sex and violence, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Potions Accident, Quite a lot of issues, Sadism, Sexuality, Tom Has Issues, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts, sexual awakening, what is love?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom had never realised how depraved he actually was.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Crossing the red-stained veil [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1520894
Comments: 8
Kudos: 146
Collections: Read





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is disjointed, poorly written and probably a little messed up, and I really can't fathom why I stopped studying to write it.

Tom had always known that there was something _different_ about him.

Something _wrong_ with him. 

He just never realised how depraved he actually was until that day. 

They were in potions.

Malfoy was sprawled casually on the stool, not doing any work, but rather leaning back a little too far as he examined all the ingredients that sat displayed at the side of the classroom. The ones they weren’t supposed to touch. Casually, he read the labels aloud, asking Tom if he knew what they were; if he did, then they were put back on the shelf, if he didn’t, then Malfoy started to play with them.

He turned the bottles over and over, looking at the liquids and powders and mucoids that were inside. Really, he was like a child in a candy store looking at all the pretty coloured sweets and deciding which one he wanted to buy. 

And that was fine, at least he wasn’t getting in the way. 

At least, it _had_ been fine, until Malfoy held up a green bottle with some dark coloured sludge-like liquid inside. Tom didn’t recognise the name, which was unusual, but whilst he was good at potions, it had never been his preferred discipline to study. So, he just went back to stirring counterclockwise and watching everyone else as they did the same. 

Or, he did, until he heard a sharp intake of breath from Malfoy followed by a series of panicked noises that descended quickly into incoherence, punctuated only by the smashing of a green glass bottle. By the time Tom turned around Malfoy was staring at his forearm and getting pretty close to shouting.

For a moment, Tom looked at him unsure what exactly it was that seemed to be causing all the distraction; perhaps, he should have cared more, but it was hard to when Malfoy was so melodramatic ninety-nine per cent of the time. It was so hard to know what actually constituted as an emergency that Tom had given up bothering to try.

But now was probably an emergency.

The dark sludge that had been safely inside the glass was now, at least, partially blobbed onto Malfoy’s arm; and it moved around, as though it were sentient, squirming like a horrific cross between a slug and an octopus.

But whatever it was, it was eating Malfoy’s skin. 

Corroding whatever it touched, burning at it. He could smell it, that acrid odour of decomposing flesh, dying right before his eyes, curling up and dropping onto the floor in a way that had Malfoy retching. It must have been painful too because the hyperventilating shouts that had started all this were rapidly blurring into a screaming that made the hairs on the back of Tom’s neck start to stand on end.

Then there was the blood.

It dripped, at first, then it surged; bubbling out of Malfoy’s arm like lava as whatever nasty thing it was burrowed itself deeper into his arm.

Tom just watched. 

There was this twisting in his stomach and this sick feeling in his throat, but not a nausea, more a sudden shock of feeling. It was like he was suddenly aware of himself. Conscious of everything inside him from the pounding of his heart to the scratching of his shirtsleeves against his wrists, and the collar that was so hot and rough on his neck. 

And Malfoy was still yelling out. 

Writhing on the floor as the sludge still ate into his skin; blood continuing to swell to the surface and seeping through the white of his shirt, and into the wood of the floor, staining everything it touched with this dirty red.

And Tom just stood there.

He couldn’t stop staring at the spot it had all started. There was nothing but a hole there now, a mangled mess of blood vessels leaking and lumps of flesh hanging off and even the bone starting to dissolve.

It crackled and crunched in a way that bone should never.

Tom couldn’t even swallow as he watched. And not from disgust; there were plenty of students who’d rushed over the sinks and vomited up their lunch at the first sight of blood. But he stood there, eyes stuck to the sight like a fly in a spider’s web.

It was haunting and hypnotic, and Tom found himself gripping the edge of the desk. Clenching the wood until his knuckles were white and aching. Tom wanted to press himself into the that wood, feel the grooves against his skin, against the tightness that had coiled in his stomach. This dark, wet thing that wanted wooden splinters embedded in it. 

Tom tried to swallow again; to just breathe _normally_ , but the sight was just too _good_ and, instead, he was hot and biting his lip and pressing his fingers so _hard_ against the wood that they hurt. 

The grotesqueness of it all was so all-consuming that Tom nearly didn’t notice someone watching him. 

Nearly. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the way Harry’s eyes were directed at him, and not at the mess before them. He shifted, suddenly even more aware of how he looked and what he was doing and what everyone else was doing. 

None of them was flushed.

None of them was burning and shivering. 

None of them gripping onto a desk like it was the only thing holding them upright. 

But Tom was, and he couldn’t stop. No matter how much Harry stared, Tom couldn’t stop himself continuing to grip the desk too hard, and breathe too heavy, and lick his lips too much, like the sight before them was mouth-watering. 

Unsurprisingly, the class had been dismissed early that afternoon, and Tom didn’t even say goodbye to anyone. All he needed was to get somewhere secluded and quiet and cold and work out what was fucking wrong with him. 

Tom ended up in the communal showers, but no one else showered at four in the afternoon so they were empty. Without even thinking he had stumbled into the farthest shower from the door, hands fumbling blinding for the taps and turning the temperature down to just above freezing just to try and extinguish this burning under his skin. 

He didn’t even take all his clothes off before he got under the water; only his robes and his shoes and his socks were discarded in an unruly pile. The spray of the water soaking him, the cold snapping at his skin like the jaws of a predator, but Tom barely felt it, not with the aching that spread like a rot right through the fabric of his skin. 

Burrowing into him.

He just wanted to water to wash it all out. To clean away these needles that were sticking into him and stop whatever monster it was that was eating him from the inside out. 

But it didn’t work. 

And, nearly an hour later, Tom found himself with his forehead still pressed into the tiles and his hands still balled into fists, just thinking of that moment. Replaying it in his head again, and again, and again. Each time reliving the howling and smell of burning and the shock of it. That sudden snap from normal to abnormal.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut and pretended that he couldn’t see the blood as it slicked Malfoy’s skin, and he could imagine what it would be like to shove his fingers into the hole in Malfoy’s arm, pushing at the flesh, sinking his nails into it, and hearing him scream. 

He wanted to bite his lips.

Make them bleed.

Watch the red start to drip down onto the tiles and twirl like a prima ballerina down the drain. He wanted something to hold; to dig his nails into and scratch and claw and bite. He wanted something to touch, something tangible and solid and willing to just squeeze between his fingers until it was mush, and – 

“Tom?”

Tom swallowed, and stayed very still in the shower, though he didn’t turn off the water. He knew that voice, and it wasn’t who he thought might have been looking for him. No, that voice belonged to Harry. 

A part of him wanted to reply, even if it was to tell Harry to go away. But his throat was so fucking dry that not even the simplest words could be formed without withering away in milliseconds. 

“I know you’re in there.”

Tom clenched his teeth, grinding them together and wishing he had something else between his teeth. Something soft and yielding that he could sink his teeth into, and bite, and chew, maybe even swallow whole.

“I want to help you,” Harry said, his voice echoing around the bathroom; and though there were the overtones of confidence, Tom could still detect the faintest notes of uncertainty. As though, deep down, Harry was scared of what he might find lurking beneath the surface. 

“ _Please_ , Tom, let me help you.”

Tom shut his eyes, “alright,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for this in its entirety.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I learnt nothing yesterday; this is even more questionable than the last chapter and I'm going to sit down and consider my life choices for a while.

Tom kept his eyes shut even as he heard the curtain be pulled back. He didn’t even turn around and look at Harry; he didn’t want to admit that this was happening. He’d always known every little thing about himself, every tiny little thing.

But now there was something foreign _inside_ him.

Something sick. 

Something absolutely fucking depraved. 

“Look at me, Tom.”

Harry’s voice was as firm as the wall that Tom’s hands were pressed flat against. Solid and sturdy and keeping him upright. He swallowed, trying to breathe normally again.

Tom opened his eyes.

Harry was still dressed, or as much as Tom was; just a shirt, and trousers, both already starting to get wet. He looked _normal_. Ordinary. There was nothing eating him alive from the inside out, no creature beneath the surface of _his_ skin, coming to the surface for the first time and demanding to be sated with something Tom didn’t understand. 

Though it was on the tip of his tongue. 

A feeling or a sensation of clawing at the back of his neck and coiling in the base of his stomach. A weight that he just wanted to scrape right out of himself, regardless of how many fucking organs he had to rip out in the process. 

Harry only watched him. His sleeves still full length and soaked at the wrist where they were under the water. There was something almost clinical in his gaze like he was _judging_ him; like Harry could see right inside him, like he _knew_ what it was that was gnawing and gnawing and gnawing. 

Tom licked his lips and tried to swallow down the aching that was creeping lower in his stomach, settling itself, coiling like a snake’s nest until he wanted to force his own hand through his ribcage and hear the bones crackling like Malfoy’s had, and watch the blood spill out like a burst pipe. 

And still, Harry watched like nothing was wrong. 

_You could kill him._

It was such an insidious thought, but he _could_. And he fucking _wanted_ to, just slam him against the wall again and again until there was blood on the tiles and embedded in the grout and Harry’s skull was split open and Tom could jab his fingers between the splintered cranium and watch whatever was inside people drip down the drain. 

But Tom kept his hands in tight fists.

This wasn’t the time to do something fucking stupid. 

But, before Tom could do _anything_ , Harry stepped forward, coming directly under the shower of water and gasping at the coldness of it. A sort of scorching cold that ate into him; not that Tom even noticed anymore with every part of him still burning up.

Though before he could ask how this was supposed to fucking help, Harry was pressing his mouth into his, hooking him in with his tongue and making Tom groan. And Tom couldn’t fucking help himself, he just _had_ to bite into Harry’s tongue, crush it as though he could leave behind teeth marks in the flesh.

Someone must have knocked the tap as the water temperature started to burn at his skin even through his shirt; but Tom didn’t care because, finally, he had _something_ soft between his teeth.

But the urge to hurt was still there.

Which meant there had to be something _wrong_ with him.

Something lurking beneath his skin and making him want… just _want_ in a way he’d never even wanted before. That need to have another body near his; someone whose muscles he could dig his hands into, someone whose shoulders he could leave purple fingerprints in, someone whose skin he could bite into, someone whose bones he could break.

Normal people didn’t want that.

Normal people didn’t fucking want that. 

They were like Malfoy; all soft and sweet smiling when they kissed him because they liked his face and they wanted him to like theirs as well. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Tom had always known there was something missing from the moments when Malfoy, or Rosier, or Lestrange, or Black kissed his mouth and said they loved him. 

There was something missing. 

But he hadn’t realised what was missing was so… _awful_. Meaningless violence wasn’t something he’d ascribed himself to; hurting for no reason was pointless and useless and senseless, and yet, here he was tasting blood in his mouth and thinking of crushing Harry’s jaw and mashing his insides together. 

Tom tried to breathe, tried to think, but Harry’s mouth was so soothing, and Harry’s hands were so distracting as they slunk down his spine and over his hipbones and – 

Tom pulled away, still panting under the too hot water. “I can’t,” he said, his own mouth cutting off the sentence before he could say anymore; before he could give away what was wrong with him. Because if Harry _knew_ what was scratching under his skin, then everyone must know, and he couldn’t have that.

But Harry just looked at him, his head tilted to the side and the water splashing off his shoulders. “Why not?”

Tom swallowed, and watched the flickers in Harry’s eyes, that strange darkness that swirled as though there was something monstrous in his eyes; some Cephalopoda creatures made of black and green swimming around.

“I – I want to hurt you,” he murmured, running his tongue over his gums again just to taste the faint remnants of blood that had dribbled down between his teeth.

Without even hesitating, Harry stepped forward until he was right under the stream of the water. “How?” he said, already reaching forward, though this time he reached for the collar of Tom’s shirt, running it between his fingers, scratching at Tom’s throat in a way that was excruciating. “How do you want to hurt me?”

Harry’s fingers continued to scratch at his neck; scraping over and over, grating the skin until Tom was rolling his lip between his teeth and tensing every single muscle.

“I want –” he paused, the words not coming together in the way they normally did; instead they were all blending together, melding into this mess that puddled on his tongue. “I want – to slam you against the wall,” he said finally, “I want to pull your hair, I want to make you bleed. I want to get my fingers inside you, and spread you and stretch you. I want to make you scream.”

Just saying it out loud made his skin tingle, and fuzziness spread through his stomach like moss growing in the crags of cliffs. Tom tried to swallow, but his throat was too tight and dry and scraped raw to be able to.

And still, Harry fiddled with his collar, undoing the topmost button like this was normal for five o’clock on a Thursday. “And I _want_ you to do that,” he murmured softly, leaning up to kiss Tom but instead biting his lip until it stung. 

“I want you to let whatever’s under your skin out,” he said looking up at him and smiling in a way that was – _off_. “Please, Tom, I want to _help_ you.”

Tom nodded. 

He’d never wanted anyone else’s hands on him; they’d always been uncomfortable and unnecessary but right now he couldn’t think of anything better than Harry’s hands gliding over his waist, the callouses of his fingers catching on every curve; nice and rough and abrasive that hurt _just_ right. 

If he was honest, Tom didn’t really know what he was doing anymore. 

He was only _feeling_. 

From Harry’s hands pulling off his shirt and Harry’s mouth dropping lower with every breath; to the sensation of Harry’s body under his own fingers; how cold it was despite the water, and how he could make him bleed just by pushing his nails under the skin. It was spilling over his fingers, all warm and sticky and staining everything he touched. 

And all he could do was dig in deeper and listen to Harry moan like a dying animal right into his ear. 

With the sound, Tom couldn’t help but picture Malfoy, and watch his face merging into Harry’s, and back again, and again, and again – two faces interchanging and interlocking, fusing and blurring into one horrific mess. Screaming and silent; its mouth open, _inhumanly_ , wide, dragging him further into himself and twisting him into impossible contortions and chewing him and – 

Tom groaned.

Harry’s hands pressed harder into his hips and his tongue curled and Tom just _had_ to pull Harry’s hair too hard. Wrapping it around his fingers like seaweed and wrenching it as sharp he could just to hear that pained whine that was honey to his ears. 

He knocked his head back on the tiles, his hands burning under the water and the pain in his stomach twisting tighter, swelling like this great, swallowing, hole in the centre of himself, where things went to be torn apart.

There was no denying something was _wrong_ with him.

But right now, he didn’t fucking care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to apologise profusely for what this turned into.


End file.
